when he leaves, he finds a napkin in his backpocket. in the dark, her handwriting is barely legible, so he pulls over, stopped beneath a streetlight that casts an orange glow.

drinks after dinner;
when i'm bubbly, i'm not
very good at poetry. i'm wondering
will this suffice? will this,
at the very least,
make you smile like the wine
wasn't cheap?


on monday, she finds a letter on her desk, written on a scrap of notebook paper with blue ink.

I'm not a good writer. I can hardly spell. I typed this on Word first so I would know everything was at least close to perfect. Maybe we should have dinner without company?


he saw her put the matches in his breast pocket, but he waited until he was home to take them out. on the front of the package, a busty woman holds a candle. on the inside flap, he finds a message.

i had fun, did you?
when's date number two?


on wednesday, he approaches her desk. he leaves a leather journal with yellowed pages. she opens it after he hastily leaves .

So you don't have to write on napkins and matchbooks. I think it affects your quality. I made reservations for 6:00 but you have to call me for the name of restaurant.


i love the journal;
i love folding the pages over
as they're filled. i love writing
about the park. you know which one.
tomorrow, i'll show this to you. will
you smile like this line isn't cheap?

he smiles and looks up at her. "how do you feel about next sunday?"